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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868316">... going on thirty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches'>forpeaches (bluecarrot)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Marriage of Convenience, Modern Era, Past Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, except not at all, no actual rape but it is still unpleasant, not super dark but bad stuff happens in life so we are going to talk about it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:34:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>back when they were kids, Brienne and Jaime promised that if they weren’t married by the time they were thirty, they’d marry each other.</p><p>things got a little complex after that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>327</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written 28-30 april 2020.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Thirty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She is <em>thirty</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She woke up to half-a-dozen notifications wishing her a happy one, mostly from people she hasn’t actually spoken to in years and didn’t like much when they did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One message is from her father.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">None of them are from Jaime. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The shower doesn’t feel different than it did at twenty-nine; the breakfast doesn’t taste different.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She should do something. Clean the apartment, maybe. Get some groceries.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her phone beeps.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Welcome to the other side of youth</em>, says Jaime.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Nice of you to keep it warm for me,</em> she sends back — being a year older always was a sore spot for him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>How are you feeling? </em>he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Casual as hell. Like it’s been a day or a week since they talked, instead of ... She sends </span> <span class="s1"> <em>Pretty disappointed with thirty so far. Run this morning was twenty-seven seconds slower than my personal best</em> </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Old age already getting its hooks in you, Tarth</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is something like flirting in his words. It doesn’t surprise her — not really. Jaime’s always been quick to turn on the charm, even with people he’s not interested in. Even with her. Maybe by now it’s a habit he can’t break.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She ought to forgive him. A decent person would. But the memory of his slow smile and those clear green eyes is too much for her temper today. She writes <em>How’s Cersei? </em>and hits send.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three dots appear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s well above a minute before he says, <em>I wouldn’t know. Haven’t spoken to her since your graduation.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne hadn’t gone to her graduation. What ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>I’m in the area, </em>he says.<em> We could meet for lunch. My treat.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*<br/><br/></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks different. Not only the obvious changes of time and place. Now he’s wearing proper clothes rather than the college-hoodie and sweats; he has a closely buzzed head instead of his rakish curls. And his right arm ends at the wrist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He studies her. “You’ve changed,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not as much as you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their waitress is here; they order.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She says, “What’s with the ...” gesturing to his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime runs his hand over it. “Therapist suggestion. Do you like it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why would your therapist tell you to shave your head?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She doesn’t tell me what to do. And you didn’t answer.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Strangely, because she loved his ridiculous curls, Brienne does like it. He seems all angles now, all punctuation; his eyes violent, his mouth — “You don’t look much like yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hedging the question,” he murmurs. Throaty. A blush crawls up her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their food comes. The waitress looks at Jaime three times and Brienne once, asking if there’s anything else ...?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just the check,” says Jaime.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne steals one of his fries. “You’re that desperate to get rid of me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I invited you here. And I see it takes a direct invitation, since you’re never on social media.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I stay off it.” Recently. She takes another fry. “These are good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wouldn’t lead you wrong, Tarth.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She smiles at him, then. Can’t help it. He’s smiling at her and the room is noisy and glad, and for a second they’re teenagers again in the flatbed of her truck, swapping a joint and looking up at the stars and promising each other anything. Everything.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then he breaks it. Says “What happened to your face?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was born this way,” says Brienne, stung.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The scar is new.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She touches it — the new. Her cheek is barely filled in, the skin still raw and pink. “You must have heard. Tarth isn’t as rural as all that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime shrugs. Returns to his food — what’s left of it. And Brienne eats her salad.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s strange to see him left-handed. She supposes it’s stupid to feel surprised, his amputation is such old news, but somehow she didn’t realize that now he would be doing everything with his clumsy second-rate hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Years of practice have made him casual with it, but she misses the old fluidity he used to have, the easy grace when he beat her at archery, tennis, shooting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And his laughing confidence when he lost.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you stared your fill?” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She starts. “Jaime, I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You did,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The cliffs are barely a mile away; the town ends where the dirt does, and then it’s a careful walk on bare rocks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They hear the ocean before they see it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a place with a a good view, a stunted tree growing in a crevice, and they settle down together there, feet hanging out into nothing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I missed you,” says Jaime, at last.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This is difficult to believe — or rather, Brienne tries to mistrust it. “You could have called.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was busy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For nine years?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne presses her palms against the granite, sparkling pink and white in the sunshine. She could have called him, too. She says, “I assumed you were with Cersei.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime shakes his head. “She married Baratheon. Did you hear? Not long after we — after you graduated.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought she wanted to marry you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought so, too.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to marry her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">None of this is making sense. “I nearly married Hyle Hunt. I had the dress and everything.” She doesn’t want to admit aloud that it’s still in her closet, a reminder of folly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">How many times has she asked herself that? In recrimination, in anger, in fear. All those midnights when she’s wished the time back to do differently, trying to let herself believe that a stupid, selfish husband is better than none at all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime is waiting. He’s looking out over the ocean, a hundred feet down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne says: “I didn’t marry Hyle because I don’t want him.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who did you want?” Still with that unfamiliar quietness. The Jaime she knew was always laughing ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You didn’t call me,” she says again. Her traitorous voice breaks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime says her name — and when she looks over, he kisses her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne doesn’t move. Daren’t move. And Jaime is soft and slow and <em>oh gods</em> his mouth is warm, and ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And his jaw is set. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll let you be.” He pushes himself backwards onto the solid rock — no easy thing, with one hand — and she has to scramble up after him, stuttering out nonsense.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What the hell — haven’t you had enough bad luck in your life, to risk — on a <em>cliff</em>, Jaime!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I already apologized. It won’t happen again.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s walking away. And Brienne has no patience left and no shame, either, because she calls out right there in the open: “You could have just asked to come up. Have a coffee. See my apartment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stops. “You’d say no.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nine years of waiting for him, and he still thinks she’ll say no? “Come on,” she says. “I make a mean cup of instant.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once inside, Brienne hesitates, glancing at him, trying to read his face. “Coffee? Or ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He settles his hands just above her hips. “I’ve never done this with someone my own height.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Arrogant idiot. “I’m taller than—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He kisses her again, harder this time: and she half-leads, half-drags him into her bedroom.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">At least the sheets are clean, she thinks; and then he has her down on those clean sheets and she thinks </span> <span class="s2">So this is what he’s been practicing left-handed,</span> <span class="s1"> because his mouth is under her shirt and he is still taking off her jeans and —</span> <span class="s2">fuck</span><span class="s1">. <em>Fuck</em>. “Jaime?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He growls.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t have any condoms.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stops. “I don’t carry a spare in my wallet, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not seventeen anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They stare at each other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Cersei,” says Brienne, at the same time Jaime says “What about vile Hunt?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m clean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tested?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Lannister.” She pushes at him and he sits up, sits back. “What about you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t ... since she and I broke up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Impossible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But maybe not. She tries to piece it together, trying to think past the aching in her cunt. Graduation was nine years ago, then there was his accident, then Cersei married — yes, she had heard about it, though she’d forgotten until right now. Pictures of Jaime from the waist up, standing near his family, no hands or bandages visible. He had put on weight from some cocktail of drugs — painkillers and steroids and sedatives and, Brienne suspected, a hefty dose of antidepressents as well — and despite the drugs and the tuxedo and the tight smile he looked absolutely miserable.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The extra weight is gone now, and so is the canned smile. </span> <span class="s2">My therapist suggested I cut my hair,</span> <span class="s1"> he’d said, and snapped </span> <span class="s2"><em>She doesn’t tell me what to do</em> </span> <span class="s1">when Brienne politely suggested he was whipped.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cersei had told him what to do, and he’d done it without asking why.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">She cups the back of his head in her hand and takes a deep breath. </span> <span class="s2"><em>Jaime</em></span><span class="s1">. How many times did she imagine him in her bed? </span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">He looks delicious. He looks </span> <em> <span class="s2">edible, </span></em> <span class="s1">and Brienne is so hungry. “We’ll do what you want.”</span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“What </span> <span class="s2">you</span> <span class="s1"> want,” he says. He cups her breast, rubs his thumb over her nipple; he licks his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So she does.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Under the skylight in her bedroom, his brow finally loses its frown; his eyes drift shut, his hand slips off her skin, and he sleeps.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*<br/><br/></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Sometime in the afternoon he wakes and finds her. Barefoot, barechested, he looks ... groggy. </span> <span class="s1">He peers at her. “Didn’t you say something about coffee?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was a euphemism for sex.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He snorts and goes to the kitchenette, opening drawers and cabinets and making little noises.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The quiet between them is unbearable. Brienne says “Did you think your life would be like this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pauses. “Bald, one-handed, and chronically alone?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not alone,” says Brienne, stung. The Lannisters might not be the best-adjusted of families, but they are pack creatures — threaten one lion and the rest surround you. She would kill for that sort of bonding. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">And he thinks he is </span> <span class="s2"> <em>alone</em> </span> <span class="s1">.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime comes out. “Last night,” he begins.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t have to get into that. I — I don’t want a relationship.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This is not entirely true, but it is true enough. She doesn’t want to put in the work and be turned down. She doesn’t want to care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He tests his drink. “I was going to say ... I was thinking about when we were kids. The shit we used to say.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime is looking at the table, so Brienne looks there too. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He chose her favorite mug — the one with a rude saying on it. And his coffee is paler than hers: he found the milk. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime looks pale, too, except for the hot spots of color in his cheeks ....</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wants to reach out, to touch his hand: but that all ended last night. They are different now. “What did we used to say?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About us. About growing up. About ... what we wanted. Who we wanted to be.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I always dreamt,” says Brienne. “of being bald. And one-handed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiles a little. “You forgot the part about being alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You aren’t —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I used to think — I used to think that — at least Tyrion loved me. My father didn’t, and — and Cersei didn’t — and no one else knew me well enough to be able to say that they did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence again. Brienne shifts in her chair. “I’ve always been quite fond of you,” she says, awkward.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ve been friends. Yes. And we — we used to say that if we got to be thirty, and didn’t marry, we should marry each other.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne’s face goes red before she even mentally registers the words. She takes a drink, wishing it were something stronger than coffee. “We were stupid kids. I didn’t mean ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know you didn’t, Tarth. I’m not saying that. I wouldn’t ...” He runs his hand over his head. “I’m asking you to marry me.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a marriage occurs.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the response to this has been a Lot? i am astonished and touched and moved and nervous, because i am not great with pressure &amp; feel sure to write something awful (or not write at all!!) and TOTALLY FAIL a bunch of people. </p><p>so, like. thanks for making me confront my fears, it’s very healthy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Item the first: This isn’t a real relationship; it’s only for the public.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you too old to be rebelling against your father?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A grim smile. “Give it time — you’ll be begging for the divorce.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And a lifetime of alimony,” says Brienne, only half-serious.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Item the second: They have a shelf-life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“An expiration date.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A date of execution,” says Jaime. “A short fuse.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Item the third ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t lie to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Item the fourth —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This had better be the last one, Tarth.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You got two, I get two,” she says, automatic. “It’s just ... don’t sleep around and make me guess where you are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks thoughtful. “Monogamy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re outside again. Sunlight makes queer planes on his face of light and shadow, like a Picasso done up in stark lines and drifted parts — while she —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She covers her healing cheek, thinking of Hyle. “Not monogamy. You can fuck other people. I don’t expect you to ... men don’t like to be faithful. It isn’t in them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks sharp. “One could say the same of women.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Women aren’t like that. Most women.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And not all men,” says Jaime: but it’s soft now. “Well, I promise to always call you and get the all-clear before I stick it in someone else.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” dryly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you ...?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you going to run around on me? Break your sacred marriage vows?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something like a laugh bubbles up in her throat. It’s thick and hard and she can’t quite breathe around it. “You see what I look like, right? I‘m not exactly beating guys off with both hands.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He makes a choked noise. “You can beat me off one-handed, I’m used to it—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne shoves him, laughing, as the septon comes out to announce that it’s time.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“— for richer or poorer, better or worse, in good health and ill, do you swear by the old gods and the new —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime is looking at the floor. “Yes,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” says Brienne, thinking: <em>Until next year.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then repeat after me ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime repeats.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne repeats, doggedly. Her blood is ringing in her ears. “I am his, and he is mine ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Jaime kisses her. His mouth is dry and tense, and he does not smile.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Outside in the sunlight again, it’s hard to look at him. She says, blindly: “I suppose we need rings.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose we do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Gods, he’s attractive. Even like this. <em>I am hers,</em> he’d said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So what the fuck do they do now?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Husband,” she says, “wanna get drunk?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a dive bar not even four blocks from Brienne’s apartment — she’s not a regular, but there are times ... </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She goes up to order and Jaime pulls her back. “Let me,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then he gets them each a round on the house for being newlyweds, and another from a nearby table for making a joke about his hand, and a third — Brienne isn’t sure why that one comes, but <em>maybe</em> it’s because he is the most beautiful man anyone has ever seen. </span>
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t even need to take out his wallet, the asshole.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After two dark-and-stormys and a good swallow of Jaime’s whiskey, she leans in to kiss him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He catches her — hand and stump holding her up. “Careful there, Tarth,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to be careful. Jaime. Take me to bed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His mouth works into a flat line and for a moment she thinks he’s going to refuse her, but — no. He only finds a generous tip and leaves it it behind, winking at the bartender, helping her through the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks like he wants a cigarette, afterwards. He says: “When I heard you were marrying that vile Hunt ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought you didn’t hear any news from Tarth.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not all of it.” He touches her cheek. “You hide quite well, out here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Does he really not know that story? “I heard about Cersei. Not when it happened — I was — I wasn’t paying attention to much right then. Later, I heard about it. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry for what? That she cheated on me and dumped me and broke my heart?” He snorts. “You always hated her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Cersei hated me first, </em>Brienne could have said,<em> and she hated me more. And I never understood why.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right now, though — as Jaime again slips his his hand between her legs, ending the argument — now, maybe Brienne understands.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Or maybe not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because Tywin Lannister is half a foot shorter than her, and half a century older, and he’s <em>scary</em>. He looks angry enough to set her alight with his mind — or freeze her where she stands. There’s little warmth to the man.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He seems mostly furious with Jaime, which is something of a relief. “This marriage will be annulled.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bit late for that, since we’ve spent the whole week fucking,” says Jaime, digging into his supper with false cheer. “Excellent fish.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tyrion does not look up. “I had it brought in special. A catch local to your bride.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne accidentally drops her fork to the floor and, bending over to pick it up, takes the opportunity to make a horrible face beneath the tablecloth. She hates the Lannisters. Bloodthirsty, all of them. Red in tooth and claw.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ms Tarth was not a virgin. Therefore the status of your consummation or lack thereof is academic at best.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You had a long relationship with Hyle Hunt. Your engagement was announced.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That doesn’t mean we slept together.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tyrion makes a choked noise. “You’ll get more sympathy here if you did sleep with Hunt. I’ve seen his photograph.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You will not marry her,” says Tywin to Jaime, ignoring both Brienne’s presence and the <em>fait accompli</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime swallows down his wine and smiles. “At least she isn’t a whore. It’s a pleasant change for this family.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you speaking of Tysha,” says Tyrion, “or Cersei?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>I used to think, </em>Jaime had said, <em>that at least Tyrion loved me</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now he reaches for Brienne’s wine and finishes that, too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Under the tablecloth, Brienne drives her fork into the tender skin of her wrist. It’s the best thing she can do right now, the only thing she can do. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the car again, and she is driving back to their hotel — just outside of the city. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The streetlights flash over Jaime again and again, like some magician’s game: Now you see him ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s rubbing the little scruff of his hair against his palm, now and then scratching his nails into his scalp. Agitated.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jaime?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Leave me alone,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So she does.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In a way, telling her father is even worse.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Waiting will not make it easier so she does it quickly, calling on videophone while Jaime is in the shower.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Selywn does not take it well. He has notraised his voice to her since her mother died, and he does not now: but he closes his mouth very tightly when she explains it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is this like Hyle?” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. Jaime is nothing like Hyle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You loved him.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her palms are sweating. “I’ve loved him since we were kids.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Selwyn has a strange look. “Are you on your honeymoon? Where are you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kings Landing.” Brienne is leaning in close to the phone, like she can touch him by touching it. She wishes she could touch him. How long has it been since they’ve sat together — eaten together? Talking isn’t the same.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The water turns off in the bathroom. Brienne rubs her hands on her knees. “Dad, I have to go.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is he there?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but he’s — he’s in the shower. We just got back from supper with his family.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You traveled all that way to eat with them,” says her father, “but not across the island to see me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She can’t find any reply to that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you happy?” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Jaime comes behind her, towel around his waist, bare above it and below. She sees his appear in the phone, a tiny threat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll call you later,” she says. “Love you, dad.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks tired. And old. “I love you,” he tells her, and reaches out to turn off the connection.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>-i am an old person and a Luddite. all that facetime zoomy shit is a videophone to me</p><p>-the dark-and-stormy is gingerbeer, dark rum, and simple syrup (add a slice of lime to the side). if that sounds good to you, ME TOO.<br/>my craving for all things ginger aside, it sounds like a Tarthian drink. stormy? stormlands? okay.</p><p>-Jaime says it’s a false relationship (#1) and that she not lie to him (#3); Brienne adds in the timeline (#2) and the cheating clause (#4).</p><p>-</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime stands there, mostly naked and slightly dripping. “You told your father.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He took it well.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Selwyn had not taken it well. “He loves me,” says Brienne. Her mouth feels numb, thick. “He wants ... he wants me to be happy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime rubs his head; the arm with its missing hand hangs loose. He looks tired. “I used to think you were making it up — about how kind he is. No, I didn’t say you were lying,” at Brienne’s expression. “Maybe exaggerating. Or just ignoring the bad parts. But he really is like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He wasn’t always. Before my mother died, it was ... different.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime sits. “That was before we met, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A few months.” Her mother had died in late spring, and all the summer holidays were drowned in grief. Returning to school was a relief — freedom from her father’s relentless guilt, his frantic overprotectiveness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You helped me,” says Jaime. He’s looking at her strangely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She can’t help but smile. “You were so pathetic. Someone had to step in.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He smiles too at that — it looks tight — but leans in to kiss her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hand goes around her waist; her hand moves up his thigh. Dear gods. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She shouldn’t go to bed with him, probably. Probably that’s a bad idea. It’s been such a long day and they’re both unhappy and —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bedroom?” he says, soft into her ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you think you’re up to it,” she says: and slides her hand up a little more.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In a certain café outside of Kings Landing, Tywin Lannister makes a new acquaintance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few hours later, Hyle Hunt tucks a roll of cash bills into the back of his sock drawer.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Scene: evening on Thursday. The world outside is dark, the apartment is dark, andJaime is a dim form lying face-down on the sofa when Brienne comes in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She stops with her hand on the light switch, a few feet away from him. “Jaime?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. Fine. Just. Therapy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tentative: “Wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it about your —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brienne.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I’ll be ... if you need me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” she says again, and leaves Jaime where he is.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">*</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In her room alone she undresses and gets into bed, trying not to think. Her phone blinks — twice — and it’s late and she’s tired but no one texts her usually, it might be an emergency, it might be ...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not her father, thank the gods. And not Margaery or Sansa or anyone else she’s half-kept in touch with. She doesn’t even recognize the number at first. <em>Thinking of you lately, </em>says the text.<em> Thinking of a lot of things. Could we maybe meet up sometime?</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hyle. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i wrote an outline for this fic. it’s a miracle.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hyle shows up; Brienne tells the story of what happened to her face.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tags updated! also archive warning, because there is canon-typical violence.<br/>that’s a thing you should check out.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>in ASOIAF, Jaime uncharitably describes Brienne as stupid, ugly, and slow — slow to think and slow to speak — and Brienne thinks of herself that way, too.<br/>But GRRM shows her being clever and perceptive often, so I think maybe both things are true, together.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why are you here, Hyle?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are in the same diner where Jaime met with her, two weeks ago. Aren’t there any other diners on Tarth?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wanted to see you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne, disbelieving, pokes the straw deeper into her drink. Has it really only been two weeks? “You haven’t shown much interest in meeting with me until I married someone else,” she says: and watches him flinch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was an asshole —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“—after your accident —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Accident? Is that what you’re calling it nowadays?” Which part was an accident? she wants to say. When that man pushed me into the couch and bit my face open? When he unbuckled his jeans and told me what would happen if I screamed?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What about when you pretended to be asleep so you wouldn’t have to help?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I never wanted to see you hurt,” says Hyle, looking pained.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne nods. Which part of that was an accident, Hyle? “Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sighs. He accepts the food the waitress brings without thanking her, and waits until she is gone before he says “I heard you married that Lannister kid.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s older than you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How much old — you know, it doesn’t matter. Why would you do that? Just for the money? That isn’t like you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She looks down. Rubs her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brie, ... I miss you. I don’t want it to be like this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She leans forward, swallowing hard. “Hyle ... I spent so long feeling alone, after that ... the accident, and the hospital, and ... but you really care?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His face softens; he reachs out his hand towards her. His right hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She brushes it with her thumb, lets her eyes drop down and whispers, kind: “I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I always have,” he says, so earnest. “You know that, don’t you? That night ... Brie, you know I was hurt, right? You know I’d do anything for you. I was afraid he’d hurt me,” Hyle says, and now he can’t hold back the whine in his voice. “I was afraid.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” she says. “I know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ll forgive me? We can start again. You don’t need him. We don’t need anyone but us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His hand is sweaty. He is always like this — overeager.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Brienne has never been very original; she’s never been quick on her feet. So she only leans in closer, close enough to kiss him — close enough to sink her teeth into his mouth and tear it off his face. She brushes her lips on his ear and says — loud enough for the fry-cooks and dishwashers in the kitchen to hear — “Fuck off, Hyle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And she upends her drink in his lap.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">*</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime is tired, hollow-eyed. He drinks a beer and doesn’t talk much over dinner — Pentoshi take-out — her treat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I missed you,” she says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You weren’t gone that long. Did your friend show up?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne collects herself, with an effort. Her friend. Sure. “Yeah. Couldn’t stay long, though. Just enough time to miss you.” She leans into his arm, his scent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If you want to fuck me,” says Jaime, opening a little cardboard flap, “all you have to do is say so.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Brienne has to count to seven before she can remember that she likes this man, </span> <span class="s1">most days. “Do you have to think of someone else?”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He takes a bite of beef-and-broccoli and says, mouth full, “What are you on about?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When we’re in bed. Do you have to think of someone else, do you have to imagine I’m someone else, so you can—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did someone say that to you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.” Brienne turns red; she’s always been an awful liar.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime is still eating, but he’s watching her, too. “Hunt said that to you, didn’t he. Was that after you dumped him or before?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before. “Afterwards.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s a dick,” says Jaime, like that’s a simple truth and a simple ending, and she can move on now. “I bet he’s never even—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you know about this?” Gesturing at her face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goes still. “Only what they said in the papers. A home intrusion.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was a little more than that.” Glass under her feet; the smell of car exhaust off the freeway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened to you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hyle was there, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brienne.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He pushed me down,” she said. “He was behind me — I didn’t see him, and he pushed me down. And I was so <em>stupid</em>, Jaime. I just froze. I couldn’t think of what to do. I kept thinking that I shouldn’t fight back. Because that’s what they say — not to fight back. <em>Play dead</em>. Like a rapist is a bear, like he’ll leave you alone if you stop being fun to play with.” Her voice is shaking. “I thought: Let him have what he wants, while I go away inside. It won’t last long. It doesn’t ever.” She can’t look at him. “So he — was trying to get ready, you know. Saying vile things to make me ... afraid. And I was afraid. ButI thought of—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She couldn’t say that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I .... I thought that I could work my arm free. And I took the lamp on the side table and I hit it on his head, over and over until he stopped fighting, til he went limp.” She takes a deep breath. “And then I called the cops.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That,” says Jaime, careful, “was <em>not</em> in the papers. Where was Hyle for all this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In the bedroom.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In the bedroom.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In our bedroom. Hiding. He was afraid.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And that — your face — that was broken glass?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No. But Brienne nods; it feels like less of a lie than speaking would.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jaime touches her cheek. The whole one. “And then what? Your wonderful fiancé told you he couldn’t get hard anymore by thinking of you; then you throw his things into the street, sell the engagement ring, and ...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She manages to smile at him. “And then I married a Lannister.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a social climber,” says Jaime. “I knew it from the start.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brienne puts her face into his shoulder and laughs, with long choked breaths that sound like sobs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she is done, Jaime offers her a piece of broccoli, held delicately on the tines of a fork. “Try it,” he insists, “it’s good” — and he is right.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Nowadays the prevailing wisdom is to fight back against violence, but as a child i was taught (in school!) that you should definitely just give in.<br/>Probably Westeros has similar ideas.</p><p>*</p><p>Exerpt from the <i>Tarth Local News</i>:</p><p>”... was able to subdue her assailant and notify authorities.</p><p>Biter is currently waiting charges in a Kings Landing hospital facility; the full extent of his injuries, and of the charges to be brought against him, are not yet known.</p><p>Ms Tarth is recovering from<br/>her injuries with family. Flowers and other messages may be sent to ...”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaime has a therapy session, and wow he needs it</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>written 14 July 2020.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jaime was a child, his aunt Genna — who had married into the family but quickly picked up their flair for drama — Genna routinely accused him of being a fool. “If you had the sense you were born with, Jaime!”</p><p>Mostly she said this between her third and fourth drink of the afternoon. The bourbon was always beautiful in the long golden light, and Jaime always wanted to try it. “It’s nasty stuff,” Genna would say, but she let him sip it anyway.</p><p>She was right; it tasted vile. Undoubtedly it was half a century old, and cost as much as a small house. “Why do you drink if if it doesn’t taste good?”</p><p>“Because I’m a Lannister,” she said. “We all cling to our foolishness.”</p><p>Cersei had been there, listening. He remembers that, how her long hair was pinned back in some setting too elaborately time-consuming to be appropriate for a child of her age, how neatly she sat with her legs crossed at the ankle.</p><p>He fetched her things all day with a patience that hindsight can’t explain: was that why Genna called him a fool? <em>Jaime, do this for me. Jaime, I want that.</em></p><p>There is no one to ask. Genna is dead and Cersei is gone and there is only going forward.</p><p>If he could go back there, would it be any different? Bourbon is still awful and he would still do anything — anything at all - for his family.</p><p> </p><p>Something of that probably explains why he answers Tyrion’s phonecall.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t answer. He knew that. He’s just come off from therapy, he’s tired in a way that only emotions can cause — not physical and not mental, but something of both.</p><p>Nothing, <em>nothing</em> feels worse than failing at therapy. It’s a fifty-minute hour, for fuck’s sake. He used to run marathons, he used to hike mountains and sleep in the open; he’s been eye-to-eye with a bear, he’s lost a hand — he’s even argued with Tywin Lannister and held his ground, which frankly deserves an Olympic medal and a standing ovation.</p><p>He used to ...</p><p>And now he only goes to therapy and comes home and cries into the sofa cushions.</p><p>If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to shower and order in food before Brienne comes home. If it’s a good day. If it’s a bad day ...</p><p> </p><p>It’s a bad day.</p><p>Tyrion calls.</p><p> </p><p>If he had the sense he was born with, he’d ignore it. He can almost hear Genna saying that in his head — she sounds remarkably like his therapist, or maybe they’ve melded together into one solid mound of I’m-not-mad-I’m-only-disappointed. </p><p>When she had first said that word, “disappointed,” Jaime blinked.</p><p>“Does that upset you?” she said.</p><p>“No one’s ever been disappointed in me before,” Jaime said.</p><p>“Not even yourself?”</p><p>That least of all. But she couldn’t understand that, and he couldn’t explain, so he lied. Yes, of course I’ve let myself down ...</p><p> </p><p>Don’t answer it, says Genna.</p><p>“It’s Tyrion.”</p><p>He can leave a message.</p><p>“It’s Tyrion,” says Jaime again: another thing he can’t explain. How it feels to love someone when every interaction between you is a commodity.</p><p>He clicks <em>accept.</em> “Hello?”</p><p>And then he sits down heavy on the couch, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear while he pulls tiny bits of fluff off of the cushion, while Tyrion talks, while he waits for Brienne to come home. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>- i’m writing this instead of editing my novel.<br/>what sort of PRIORITIES</p><p>- Jamie and Cersei are step-siblings here, because it's complex to deal with full-on incest in a modern setting, and i am extremely lazy</p><p>- Jaime's therapist is Arya. this won't come up in the text, it isn't relevant to the plot, but i really enjoy it because i think she would be a very good and a very BRUTAL therapist, and franky Jaime needs someone to strong-arm him into mental health. OMINOUS POSITIVITY. "You will get better; you have no choice."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>healing is not a straight line; it’s all twisty-turny-timey-wimey</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Healing is not a straight line.</p><p>That seems self-evident to the point of insult, like saying “life isn’t easy” and “some discomfort may be expected during childbirth” — but the very banality of the phrase is deceptive. It hides danger. Like drugs slipped into a red solo cup: Here, take this.</p><p>Brienne drinks.</p><p> </p><p>Jaime, she has learned, has any number of issues. He is aware of these issues and he Does Not Want To Talk About it. He does not want to talk about his hand (“I’m sure there are articles online, if you’re feeling nosey”), he doesn’t want to talk about money (“Don’t be nouveau-riche”) and he absolutely positively does not want to talk about his family (“I don’t want to talk about that”). Any questions directed at him are redirected towards her, aimed with direct and merciless aim at her soft spots.</p><p>And yet:</p><p>She comes in from work and he’s prone on the couch, watching some cartoon children film. The lights are off, the place is dark except for the flicker of the screen: if she didn’t see his eyes open and shining, she’d think he was asleep.</p><p>He doesn’t greet her.</p><p>She sits down on the little bit of space left. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Drunk, she thinks. Or high. She puts a hand to his face — just to feel his temperature - and he flinches back.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>He moves his hand down, away from the hairline. “It’s fine.”</p><p>It is so clearly *not* fine that there doesn’t seem to be any point in arguing the point. So she goes to the kitchen, finds a drink, finds a snack, and without moving his eyes from the tv, Jaime says: “Did you have a good date?”</p><p> </p><p>When Brienne was a girl, she learned to laugh too much. A defense mechanism, a tin suit of armor: pretend you aren’t hurt and maybe you won’t be. Of course it never worked. But the habit stayed with her, it comes out in her worst moments, when she is already bruised and hurting. Weak.</p><p> </p><p>She laughs now. “What date?”</p><p>It’s the wrong thing to say. Jaime’s hand clenches. “I just thought we were going to check in before we went fucking around, but -“</p><p>“You’re talking about Hyle Hunt? You think I slept with Hyle?”</p><p>“You agreed to talk to me first.” Soft. </p><p>She hates him like this, — she’s so ready to hate someone, and she has always hated this part of him, the Lannister part, inpenetrable. <em>Where does the </em>you<em> part of you go to when you’re upset? </em>she asked him once. <br/><em>Away</em>, he said.<br/><em>Where?<br/>Just away, inside. Nothing matters that way. If you go far enough.</em></p><p>She’s never been able to do that. Or maybe the opposite is true: it’s too easy, too tempting. </p><p>He’s rubbing the back of his scalp, dragging fingers over the buzzed hair. Slow. It has the grim repetitive motion of a obsession.</p><p>”Who told you I went out with him?” she says.</p><p>”No one.”</p><p>“Jaime.”</p><p>He shrugs. “Tyrion.”</p><p>“And how did he know?”</p><p>“He’s Tyrion. He has a gift. It’s what he does. He drinks and he knows things.”</p><p>“Very clever,” says Brienne. “You should put that on a t-shirt —“<br/>But she stops: neither one of them is listening anymore.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i had an extensive outline for this, which i tossed out last month when i decided to stop writing fic (you can see how well those decisions worked out for me)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s three drinks and one argument in, feeling that blur to his emotions that makes them, contrariwise, easier to accept and easier to dismiss. <em>Where do you go?</em> Brienne had said, like it’s a decision.</p><p>She’s talking now but she is far away — she’s blurred — and it isn’t until she snaps her fingers in front of his face that he can come back and focus. “Sorry. What?”</p><p>She — she has a bag in front of her, and her mouth is set. “I said, get up and pack.”</p><p>”What do you mean? Are you ... where are you going?” Leaving, Brienne? Are you leaving me?</p><p>He must look as sick as he feels (don’t leave) because her mouth parts and she touches his hand. “We’re going away a few days. This isn’t helping. Being here isn’t helping.”</p><p>“Where?” A nice island, he’s thinking. Somewhere in the sunlight, somewhere he can walk on the beach, ...</p><p>“Tarth.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes — <em>Tarth! </em>— and Brienne laughs. She actually laughs. “It’s not going to be Dorne,” she says. “You’ll want a sweater or two. But it’s a change of scenery, a change of pace ...”</p><p>“I — I can’t miss therapy —”</p><p>“Calm down. They have telephones and electricity there. Most of the island even has wireless.”</p><p>“... <em>most</em> of it?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The real reason, obviously, is because they haven’t seen Selwyn since their marriage. The real reason is because Selwyn hasn’t seen Jaime.</p><p>On the ferry over to the main part of the island, the wind is high and the waves choppy; most of the passengers take shelter in the glass-framed midsection, and stay where they are. One or two even looks green. </p><p>“Landlubbers,” says Jaime to his wife; he is bemused and grateful for a childhood spent messing around on boats.</p><p>Of course, most of those boats were yachts — but Kevan had a succession of sailboats, and Addam’s father taught them to race, and ...</p><p>And Brienne looks guilty. “Those poor tourists. They must be miserable.”</p><p>“They should have known better than to come to Tarth in the winter. Why not go somewhere else? Preferably warm,” he says. “With many fruity drinks, too, and — What?” </p><p>because Brienne is staring at him. </p><p>She reaches out to touch his buzzcut and pulls back, abashed. “The wind is taking the curl out of your hair,” she says.</p><p>“It’s putting roses in your cheeks, wench.”</p><p>“Tarth roses,” she says. “Look, you can just see the hill leading up to the house.”</p><p>Jaime shades his eyes and squints. “I think I can see your father.”</p><p>“Shut up,” says Brienne: but she’s smiling again.</p><p> </p><p>Selwyn Tarth isn’t as tall as his daughter; he is stooped down by years and work and a wasting disease that, he says, moves too slow to bother treating. Jaime expects the answer is a bit closer to home, — buried in the island’s little graveyard — but he doesn’t say it, as Selwyn and Brienne meet in a hard embrace.</p><p>Selwyn looks at his daughter’s waistline before he speaks — and Jaime doesn’t comment on that, either. But evidentally her stomach meets with her father’s approval, because “Good to have you home,” he says. “And you, Jaime.”</p><p>”Yes.” Um. “Thank you for having us.”</p><p>”You’re always welcome. You should know that by now.”</p><p>“Dad.”</p><p>“He is.”</p><p>“<em>Dad.”</em></p><p>He reaches an arm around her shoulders. “So are you, little one.”</p><p> </p><p>Unaccountably, they’re given separate rooms.</p><p>It’s even more unexpected to hear a soft knock on his door late in the night, and open it to see a tall form in a heavy sweater and boots.</p><p>He eyes her. “You look ready for an outing.”</p><p>“I’m going to the shore awhile. I thought ... dinner was a lot, and I thought ...”</p><p>“Give me five minutes” — he was already undressed, ready to sleep — “and I’ll go with you.”</p><p>She nods: but instead of leaving him alone, she slips into the room and sits on the bed, advising him on his clothes. Put something on over that t-shirt, she says, and Don’t you have anything better than skinny jeans, Lannister?</p><p>At the door she tugs down a wool cap over his head and folds up the brim. “You lose eighty percent of your body heat through your head, and you don’t have any hair to help insulate.”</p><p>”I’ve heard that 73 percent of statistics are made up on the spot,” says Jaime.</p><p>“You’ll be grateful enough,” she says, “when we get to the water.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She’s right. It’s cold as hell — cold as the Wall, most probably — and all along the edges of the water are shards of ice where the ocean laps at the sand. Beneath their feet the naked shingles rub together with creaks and screams — horrible noise — until the roar of the sea overwhelms it.</p><p>Brienne raises her chin and looks out over the water.</p><p>It’s a moonless night, the world deep and restless, and stars are shivering in the overturned bowl of the sky. Here below, ice crackles on ice with every wave, brittle and crisp, and Jaime shivers too.</p><p>”I used to come here after mother died. When I came home from school for breaks, this is the first place I went.”</p><p>”Did you ... did you come here with her?” Stupid, he thinks. Stupid. Why am I so insipid? Why can’t I <em>talk?</em> Inside his sleeve, his hand clenches: he feels the urge to pull on his hair.</p><p>Brienne shakes her head. “No. Not often.”</p><p>“Then why ...”</p><p>She shrugs. “I just wanted to show it to you.” </p><p>That isn’t really an answer — or maybe it is — and as she takes his arm, leaning into his side with her warmth, he considers that somewhere in a lifetime of poor decisions, he found the good sense to marry Brienne. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>many (many) thanks to wirette for wanting more.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this isn’t going to be as cheerful and cute as i intended but HERE WE ARE.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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